On the eighth of April we went to London, on the eighth of May I
returned, in obedience to Arthur's wish; very much against my own,
because I left him behind. If he had come with me, I should have
been very glad to get home again, for he led me such a round of
restless dissipation while there, that, in that short space of
time, I was quite tired out. He seemed bent upon displaying me to
his friends and acquaintances in particular, and the public in
general, on every possible occasion, and to the greatest possible
advantage. It was something to feel that he considered me a worthy
object of pride; but I paid dear for the gratification: for, in
the first place, to please him I had to violate my cherished
predilections, my almost rooted principles in favour of a plain,
dark, sober style of dress - I must sparkle in costly jewels and
deck myself out like a painted butterfly, just as I had, long
since, determined I would never do - and this was no trifling
sacrifice; in the second place, I was continually straining to
satisfy his sanguine expectations and do honour to his choice by my
general conduct and deportment, and fearing to disappoint him by
some awkward misdemeanour, or some trait of inexperienced ignorance
about the customs of society, especially when I acted the part of
hostess, which I was not unfrequently called upon to do; and, in
the third place, as I intimated before, I was wearied of the throng
and bustle, the restless hurry and ceaseless change of a life so
alien to all my previous habits. At last, he suddenly discovered
that the London air did not agree with me, and I was languishing
for my country home, and must immediately return to Grassdale.

I laughingly assured him that the case was not so urgent as he
appeared to think it, but I was quite willing to go home if he was.
He replied that he should be obliged to remain a week or two
longer, as he had business that required his presence.

'But I can't do with you, Helen,' was his answer: 'as long as you
stay I shall attend to you and neglect my business.'

'But I won't let you,' I returned; 'now that I know you have
business to attend to, I shall insist upon your attending to it,
and letting me alone; and, to tell the truth, I shall be glad of a
little rest. I can take my rides and walks in the Park as usual;
and your business cannot occupy all your time: I shall see you at
meal-times, and in the evenings at least, and that will be better
than being leagues away and never seeing you at all.'

'But, my love, I cannot let you stay. How can I settle my affairs
when I know that you are here, neglected -?'

'I shall not feel myself neglected: while you are doing your duty,
Arthur, I shall never complain of neglect. If you had told me
before, that you had anything to do, it would have been half done
before this; and now you must make up for lost time by redoubled
exertions. Tell me what it is; and I will be your taskmaster,
instead of being a hindrance.'

'No, no,' persisted the impracticable creature; 'you must go home,
Helen; I must have the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe
and well, though far away. Your bright eyes are faded, and that
tender, delicate bloom has quite deserted your cheek.'

'It is not, I tell you; it is the London air: you are pining for
the fresh breezes of your country home, and you shall feel them
before you are two days older. And remember your situation,
dearest Helen; on your health, you know, depends the health, if not
the life, of our future hope.'

'Why, what helpless creature do you take me for,' I replied, 'that
you cannot trust me to go a hundred miles in our own carriage, with
our own footman and a maid to attend me? If you come with me I
shall assuredly keep you. But tell me, Arthur, what is this
tiresome business; and why did you never mention it before?'

'It is only a little business with my lawyer,' said he; and he told
me something about a piece of property he wanted to sell, in order
to pay off a part of the incumbrances on his estate; but either the
account was a little confused, or I was rather dull of
comprehension, for I could not clearly understand how that should
keep him in town a fortnight after me. Still less can I now
comprehend how it should keep him a month, for it is nearly that
time since I left him, and no signs of his return as yet. In every
letter he promises to be with me in a few days, and every time
deceives me, or deceives himself. His excuses are vague and
insufficient. I cannot doubt that he has got among his former
companions again. Oh, why did I leave him! I wish - I do
intensely wish he would return!

June 29th. - No Arthur yet; and for many days I have been looking
and longing in vain for a letter. His letters, when they come, are
kind, if fair words and endearing epithets can give them a claim to
the title - but very short, and full of trivial excuses and
promises that I cannot trust; and yet how anxiously I look forward
to them I how eagerly I open and devour one of those little,
hastily-scribbled returns for the three or four long letters,
hitherto unanswered, he has had from me!

Oh, it is cruel to leave me so long alone! He knows I have no one
but Rachel to speak to, for we have no neighbours here, except the
Hargraves, whose residence I can dimly descry from these upper
windows embosomed among those low, woody hills beyond the Dale. I
was glad when I learnt that Milicent was so near us; and her
company would be a soothing solace to me now; but she is still in
town with her mother; there is no one at the Grove but little
Esther and her French governess, for Walter is always away. I saw
that paragon of manly perfections in London: he seemed scarcely to
merit the eulogiums of his mother and sister, though he certainly
appeared more conversable and agreeable than Lord Lowborough, more
candid and high-minded than Mr. Grimsby, and more polished and
gentlemanly than Mr. Hattersley, Arthur's only other friend whom he
judged fit to introduce to me. - Oh, Arthur, why won't you come?
why won't you write to me at least? You talked about my health:
how can you expect me to gather bloom and vigour here, pining in
solitude and restless anxiety from day to day? - It would serve you
right to come back and find my good looks entirely wasted away. I
would beg my uncle and aunt, or my brother, to come and see me, but
I do not like to complain of my loneliness to them, and indeed
loneliness is the least of my sufferings. But what is he, doing -
what is it that keeps him away? It is this ever-recurring
question, and the horrible suggestions it raises, that distract me.

July 3rd. - My last bitter letter has wrung from him an answer at
last, and a rather longer one than usual; but still I don't know
what to make of it. He playfully abuses me for the gall and
vinegar of my latest effusion, tells me I can have no conception of
the multitudinous engagements that keep him away, but avers that,
in spite of them all, he will assuredly be with me before the close
of next week; though it is impossible for a man so circumstanced as
he is to fix the precise day of his return: meantime he exhorts me
to the exercise of patience, 'that first of woman's virtues,' and
desires me to remember the saying, 'Absence makes the heart grow
fonder,' and comfort myself with the assurance that the longer he
stays away the better he shall love me when he returns; and till he
does return, he begs I will continue to write to him constantly,
for, though he is sometimes too idle and often too busy to answer
my letters as they come, he likes to receive them daily; and if I
fulfil my threat of punishing his seeming neglect by ceasing to
write, he shall be so angry that he will do his utmost to forget
me. He adds this piece of intelligence respecting poor Milicent
Hargrave:

'Your little friend Milicent is likely, before long, to follow your
example, and take upon her the yoke of matrimony in conjunction
with a friend of mine. Hattersley, you know, has not yet fulfilled
his direful threat of throwing his precious person away on the
first old maid that chose to evince a tenderness for him; but he
still preserves a resolute determination to see himself a married
man before the year is out. "Only," said he to me, "I must have
somebody that will let me have my own way in everything - not like
your wife, Huntingdon: she is a charming creature, but she looks
as if she had a will of her own, and could play the vixen upon
occasion" (I thought "you're right there, man," but I didn't say
so). "I must have some good, quiet soul that will let me just do
what I like and go where I like, keep at home or stay away, without
a word of reproach or complaint; for I can't do with being
bothered." "Well," said I, "I know somebody that will suit you to
a tee, if you don't care for money, and that's Hargrave's sister,
Milicent." He desired to be introduced to her forthwith, for he
said he had plenty of the needful himself, or should have when his
old governor chose to quit the stage. So you see, Helen, I have
managed pretty well, both for your friend and mine.'

Poor Milicent! But I cannot imagine she will ever be led to accept
such a suitor - one so repugnant to all her ideas of a man to be
honoured and loved.

5th. - Alas! I was mistaken. I have got a long letter from her
this morning, telling me she is already engaged, and expects to be
married before the close of the month.

'I hardly know what to say about it,' she writes, 'or what to
think. To tell you the truth, Helen, I don't like the thoughts of
it at all. If I am to be Mr. Hattersley's wife, I must try to love
him; and I do try with all my might; but I have made very little
progress yet; and the worst symptom of the case is, that the
further he is from me the better I like him: he frightens me with
his abrupt manners and strange hectoring ways, and I dread the
thoughts of marrying him. "Then why have you accepted him?" you
will ask; and I didn't know I had accepted him; but mamma tells me
I have, and he seems to think so too. I certainly didn't mean to
do so; but I did not like to give him a flat refusal, for fear
mamma should be grieved and angry (for I knew she wished me to
marry him), and I wanted to talk to her first about it: So I gave
him what I thought was an evasive, half negative answer; but she
says it was as good as an acceptance, and he would think me very
capricious if I were to attempt to draw back - and indeed I was so
confused and frightened at the moment, I can hardly tell what I
said. And next time I saw him, he accosted me in all confidence as
his affianced bride, and immediately began to settle matters with
mamma. I had not courage to contradict them then, and how can I do
it now? I cannot; they would think me mad. Besides, mamma is so
delighted with the idea of the match; she thinks she has managed so
well for me; and I cannot bear to disappoint her. I do object
sometimes, and tell her what I feel, but you don't know how she
talks. Mr. Hattersley, you know, is the son of a rich banker, and
as Esther and I have no fortunes, and Walter very little, our dear
mamma is very anxious to see us all well married, that is, united
to rich partners. It is not my idea of being well married, but she
means it all for the best. She says when I am safe off her hands
it will be such a relief to her mind; and she assures me it will be
a good thing for the family as well as for me. Even Walter is
pleased at the prospect, and when I confessed my reluctance to him,
he said it was all childish nonsense. Do you think it nonsense,
Helen? I should not care if I could see any prospect of being able
to love and admire him, but I can't. There is nothing about him to
hang one's esteem and affection upon; he is so diametrically
opposite to what I imagined my husband should be. Do write to me,
and say all you can to encourage me. Don't attempt to dissuade me,
for my fate is fixed: preparations for the important event are
already going on around me; and don't say a word against Mr.
Hattersley, for I want to think well of him; and though I have
spoken against him myself, it is for the last time: hereafter, I
shall never permit myself to utter a word in his dispraise, however
he may seem to deserve it; and whoever ventures to speak
slightingly of the man I have promised to love, to honour, and
obey, must expect my serious displeasure. After all, I think he is
quite as good as Mr. Huntingdon, if not better; and yet you love
him, and seem to be happy and contented; and perhaps I may manage
as well. You must tell me, if you can, that Mr. Hattersley is
better than he seems - that he is upright, honourable, and open-
hearted - in fact, a perfect diamond in the rough. He may be all
this, but I don't know him. I know only the exterior, and what, I
trust, is the worst part of him.'

She concludes with 'Good-by, dear Helen. I am waiting anxiously
for your advice - but mind you let it be all on the right side.'

Alas! poor Milicent, what encouragement can I give you? or what
advice - except that it is better to make a bold stand now, though
at the expense of disappointing and angering both mother and
brother and lover, than to devote your whole life, hereafter, to
misery and vain regret?

Saturday, 13th. - The week is over, and he is not come. All the
sweet summer is passing away without one breath of pleasure to me
or benefit to him. And I had all along been looking forward to
this season with the fond, delusive hope that we should enjoy it so
sweetly together; and that, with God's help and my exertions, it
would be the means of elevating his mind, and refining his taste to
a due appreciation of the salutary and pure delights of nature, and
peace, and holy love. But now - at evening, when I see the round
red sun sink quietly down behind those woody hills, leaving them
sleeping in a warm, red, golden haze, I only think another lovely
day is lost to him and me; and at morning, when roused by the
flutter and chirp of the sparrows, and the gleeful twitter of the
swallows - all intent upon feeding their young, and full of life
and joy in their own little frames - I open the window to inhale
the balmy, soul-reviving air, and look out upon the lovely
landscape, laughing in dew and sunshine - I too often shame that
glorious scene with tears of thankless misery, because he cannot
feel its freshening influence; and when I wander in the ancient
woods, and meet the little wild flowers smiling in my path, or sit
in the shadow of our noble ash-trees by the water-side, with their
branches gently swaying in the light summer breeze that murmurs
through their feathery foliage - my ears full of that low music
mingled with the dreamy hum of insects, my eyes abstractedly gazing
on the glassy surface of the little lake before me, with the trees
that crowd about its bank, some gracefully bending to kiss its
waters, some rearing their stately heads high above, but stretching
their wide arms over its margin, all faithfully mirrored far, far
down in its glassy depth - though sometimes the images are
partially broken by the sport of aquatic insects, and sometimes,
for a moment, the whole is shivered into trembling fragments by a
transient breeze that sweeps the surface too roughly - still I have
no pleasure; for the greater the happiness that nature sets before
me, the more I lament that he is not here to taste it: the greater
the bliss we might enjoy together, the more I feel our present
wretchedness apart (yes, ours; he must be wretched, though he may
not know it); and the more my senses are pleased, the more my heart
is oppressed; for he keeps it with him confined amid the dust and
smoke of London - perhaps shut up within the walls of his own
abominable club.

But most of all, at night, when I enter my lonely chamber, and look
out upon the summer moon, 'sweet regent of the sky,' floating above
me in the 'black blue vault of heaven,' shedding a flood of silver
radiance over park, and wood, and water, so pure, so peaceful, so
divine - and think, Where is he now? - what is he doing at this
moment? wholly unconscious of this heavenly scene - perhaps
revelling with his boon companions, perhaps - God help me, it is
too - too much!

23rd. - Thank heaven, he is come at last! But how altered! flushed
and feverish, listless and languid, his beauty strangely
diminished, his vigour and vivacity quite departed. I have not
upbraided him by word or look; I have not even asked him what he
has been doing. I have not the heart to do it, for I think he is
ashamed of himself-he must be so indeed, and such inquiries could
not fail to be painful to both. My forbearance pleases him -
touches him even, I am inclined to think. He says he is glad to be
home again, and God knows how glad I am to get him back, even as he
is. He lies on the sofa, nearly all day long; and I play and sing
to him for hours together. I write his letters for him, and get
him everything he wants; and sometimes I read to him, and sometimes
I talk, and sometimes only sit by him and soothe him with silent
caresses. I know he does not deserve it; and I fear I am spoiling
him; but this once, I will forgive him, freely and entirely. I
will shame him into virtue if I can, and I will never let him leave
me again.

He is pleased with my attentions - it may be, grateful for them.
He likes to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy
with his servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me. What
he would be, if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and
so carefully avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that
has a tendency to irritate or disturb him, with however little
reason, I cannot tell. How intensely I wish he were worthy of all
this care! Last night, as I sat beside him, with his head in my
lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought
made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears - as it often does; but
this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up. He
smiled, but not insultingly.

'Dear Helen!' he said - 'why do you cry? you know that I love you'
(and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), 'and what more could
you desire?'

'Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and as
faithfully as you are loved by me.'

August 24th. - Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as
light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse
as a spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially
when wet weather keeps him within doors. I wish he had something
to do, some useful trade, or profession, or employment - anything
to occupy his head or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him
something besides his own pleasure to think about. If he would
play the country gentleman and attend to the farm - but that he
knows nothing about, and won't give his mind to consider, - or if
he would take up with some literary study, or learn to draw or to
play - as he is so fond of music, I often try to persuade him to
learn the piano, but he is far too idle for such an undertaking:
he has no more idea of exerting himself to overcome obstacles than
he has of restraining his natural appetites; and these two things
are the ruin of him. I lay them both to the charge of his harsh
yet careless father, and his madly indulgent mother. - If ever I am
a mother I will zealously strive against this crime of over-
indulgence. I can hardly give it a milder name when I think of the
evils it brings.

Happily, it will soon be the shooting season, and then, if the
weather permit, he will find occupation enough in the pursuit and
destruction of the partridges and pheasants: we have no grouse, or
he might have been similarly occupied at this moment, instead of
lying under the acacia-tree pulling poor Dash's ears. But he says
it is dull work shooting alone; he must have a friend or two to
help him.

'Let them be tolerably decent then, Arthur,' said I. The word
'friend' in his mouth makes me shudder: I know it was some of his
'friends' that induced him to stay behind me in London, and kept
him away so long: indeed, from what he has unguardedly told me, or
hinted from time to time, I cannot doubt that he frequently showed
them my letters, to let them see how fondly his wife watched over
his interests, and how keenly she regretted his absence; and that
they induced him to remain week after week, and to plunge into all
manner of excesses, to avoid being laughed at for a wife-ridden
fool, and, perhaps, to show how far he could venture to go without
danger of shaking the fond creature's devoted attachment. It is a
hateful idea, but I cannot believe it is a false one.

'Well,' replied he, 'I thought of Lord Lowborough for one; but
there is no possibility of getting him without his better half, our
mutual friend, Annabella; so we must ask them both. You're not
afraid of her, are you, Helen?' he asked, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eyes.

'Hargrave for one. He will be glad to come, though his own place
is so near, for he has little enough land of his own to shoot over,
and we can extend our depredations into it, if we like; and he is
thoroughly respectable, you know, Helen - quite a lady's man: and
I think, Grimsby for another: he's a decent, quiet fellow enough.
You'll not object to Grimsby?'

'I hate him: but, however, if you wish it, I'll try to endure his
presence for a while.'

'Why, yes, I think so. Hattersley will be too busy billing and
cooing, with his bride to have much time to spare for guns and dogs
at present,' he replied. And that reminds me, that I have had
several letters from Milicent since her marriage, and that she
either is, or pretends to be, quite reconciled to her lot. She
professes to have discovered numberless virtues and perfections in
her husband, some of which, I fear, less partial eyes would fail to
distinguish, though they sought them carefully with tears; and now
that she is accustomed to his loud voice, and abrupt, uncourteous
manners, she affirms she finds no difficulty in loving him as a
wife should do, and begs I will burn that letter wherein she spoke
so unadvisedly against him. So that I trust she may yet be happy;
but, if she is, it will be entirely the reward of her own goodness
of heart; for had she chosen to consider herself the victim of
fate, or of her mother's worldly wisdom, she might have been
thoroughly miserable; and if, for duty's sake, she had not made
every effort to love her husband, she would, doubtless, have hated
him to the end of her days.